


Darling, why don't we just dance?

by jimmriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After TSOT, Ghost!Jim, M/M, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 22:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jimmriarty/pseuds/jimmriarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They look at each other until Sherlock raises the corners of his lips into a smile and approaches Jim, stopping only few centimetres away from him. He then slides his right arm around the criminal’s waist - the movement is so fluid and natural that Jim can’t help but be surprised, it isn’t the first time Sherlock does something like that and the thought pleasantly surprises him – and with his free hand he grabs Jim’s.</p>
<p>“I’m gonna tell you a secret.” Sherlock whispers, lips moving closer the criminal’s ear. “I was just looking for a partner.” Jim laughs and he doesn’t know if it’s more for the half smile that floats through Sherlock’s lips or for his words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Darling, why don't we just dance?

It’s not a cold night. The evening breeze is fresh and pleasant on his face and Jim Moriarty narrows his eyes, focusing on the sensation on his skin. In its simplicity, it feels weird. Weird like hearing his own heart beat again, like the awareness of having a physical body, like being able to feel anything at all after two years of absolute nothingness. It’s weird but not necessary unpleasant, even Jim can’t say he missed living either.

The only thing – or better, person – he truly missed is Sherlock Holmes. 

The detective has always been out of the ordinary. Not only he has a brilliant mind and thinks differently from the people around him, he also knows what is like to be bored, disappointed by a world that will never be enough. He’s the only person capable of understanding him, the only one that Jim can’t entirely predict. There is always something in their meetings – a phrase, a gesture or just a word – that Jim didn’t consider and it’s like a breath of fresh air. 

It's only for him that Jim has decided to take a physical form and come back on that world so boring and ordinary that made him put a bullet in his mouth. For him, Jim Moriarty has temporarily given up the sweet and inviting void of death.

The music reach his ears in muffled notes. Jim opens his eyes – it doesn’t take much to get used to the dim light of the moon – and on his lips appears a smile full of expectation. He waits, fingers drumming on his pants to the rhythm of the music and big brown eyes observing the area near the building. 

And there he is.

Jim watches him for a few moments. Sherlock wears his usual navy coat with the collar turned up – under that he can see a dark suit – and his walk is somehow dramatic, as if a bit of theatricality could hide a sadness that is still clear and evident.

(John is married now and there is no place for Sherlock in his new life. And since Jim is technically dead, Sherlock now doesn’t have anyone at all. He should have killed himself when Jim offered him the chance to die together.)

The criminal’s fingers quickly grab the phone previously tucked into the pocket of his pants and allow the song to play. The music starts and Sherlock freezes, moving his head a few times before looking where the criminal stands. Jim smiles, white teeth contrasting with the darkness that surrounds him, and takes a step forward, allowing the moonlight to illuminate him more clearly.

“Stayin’ Alive!” He shouts, stopping the song. Maybe it wasn’t the best choice since he’s dead and all, but old habits die hard. "Did you miss me, darling?” 

Sherlock is astonished. He looks at him with raised eyebrows and lips parted, simply staring, bright blue eyes running from head to foots several times. “You ..." He murmurs, pointing at Jim with his right hand. "... How?"

Those two words are enough to wipe the smile from Jim’s lips: Sherlock’s reaction is too trivial, too common, too predictable. The criminal can read his thoughts (“How did he survive? He shot himself in front of my eyes!"), he can deduce that the other is recalling that day, looking for any detail that could solve that impossible mystery and that brings on Jim’s mouth a bitter taste that feels like disappointment.

"How did I survive?" Jim twists his lips in a grimace. "I didn’t. Sherlock, I shot myself in the mouth, I'm dead.”

"Oh, please." Sherlock says, exasperated. "You're right in front of me." 

"It doesn’t mean I’m alive.”

"Jim…”

Of course he didn’t think that Sherlock would have believed him. However, he hoped that the detective wouldn’t focus on details so irrelevant and meaningless. The only way to skip this whole pathetic scene is a direct and tough approach, he thinks, rolling his eyes dramatically and snapping his fingers. 

Suddenly, his appearance changes. Jim doesn’t feel any difference, but he knows that now a good portion of his skull is missing and that there are streams of blood tainting his hair and face. Hopefully, he can easily return as he was before, Jim doesn’t like to look messy when he’s with Sherlock.

“Short long story: I have a night.” He says, raising his lips in a little smile. 

Sherlock blinks. Once, twice. He opens his mouth, about to say something but he closes it immediately. Jim doesn’t want to rush it. He lets the detective take his time to metabolize the whole thing, while he gets rid of the wound. (The snap wasn’t necessary, but it added a little touch of drama that Jim can’t help but enjoy.)

“Why… Why are you here?” Sherlock is able to say after a couple of minutes. “Do you want to haunt me or something? Why now?”

“Sherlock, I don’t want to haunt you. I didn’t killed myself for that. I just…” Jim smiles, lowering his gaze for a few seconds in a fit of shyness that doesn’t really belong to him. “… want a dance.” The smile on his lips becomes wider. “You owe me one, Sherl.” 

Jim’s words don’t receive any answer. There isn’t however that kind of embarrassment that usually linger between two people who don’t have anything to say: Jim and Sherlock share a bond, a connection that makes speaking useless. 

They look at each other until Sherlock raises the corners of his lips into a smile and approaches Jim, stopping only few centimetres away from him. He then slides his right arm around the criminal’s waist - the movement is so fluid and natural that Jim can’t help but be surprised, it isn’t the first time Sherlock does something like that and the thought pleasantly surprises him – and with his free hand he grabs Jim’s.

“I’m gonna tell you a secret.” Sherlock whispers, lips moving closer the criminal’s ear. “I was just looking for a partner.” Jim laughs and he doesn’t know if it’s more for the half smile that floats through Sherlock’s lips or for his words.

The detective starts moving, his movements are soft and follow the echo of the music in the distance and Jim follows them, the smile still on his lips. “Actually, I wanted to lead.” Jim adds, laughing again and leaning more towards him. “But it doesn’t matter, I like it anyway.”

They dance in silence for an amount of time that Jim can’t estimate: even if his mind tells him that they are dancing for no longer than a couple of minutes, time seems dilated. It’s like they are in a sort of bubble, a strange corner of the universe in which the ticking of the clock holds no meaning. There are only them and their bodies that keep moving, with a fluidity and elegance that seem to belong to another world; everything else is meaningless. 

Sherlock’s hand is warm against his own and that brings Jim back to that day two years ago. This time there aren’t, however, the cold metal of the gun and veils of tears in their eyes, but only the gentle pressure of Sherlock’s arm on his waist and their bodies dancing together.

“I don’t think I will ever be able to understand a wedding.” Jim says, suddenly. “Why spend the eternity with the same person? It must be so boring and tedious…” He murmurs, without moving his gaze from Sherlock. “However…” The lips open in a smile that reveals the teeth and the criminal leans a little more. Their noses are only a bunch of inches away now and Jim would have to move only a little more to steal a kiss or bite him or do whatever he wants to do. He still doesn’t do it. “… If the person in question was you darling, I could change my mind.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

"God, no. Just the thought of planning the wedding makes me want to shoot myself. " Jim moves away only a bit, a laugh on his lips. "Not to mention that I'm dead. I don’t think it’s legal.”

"You are talking like that could stop you." Sherlock replies, smiling. 

"Do you really want to marry me that much?” He asks. For a moment an unpleasant thought passes through his mind – ‘if you really wanted to be with me, you should have killed yourself that day’ – but Jim quickly represses it. He doesn’t want to ruin everything.

“You still haven’t answered my first question yet, though. Did you miss me?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He slightly curls his lips and on his face takes shape a thoughtful expression. He’s just being dramatic, Jim already knows the answer.

“I spent the last two years destroying your criminal network all around the world. "He stops. "The answer is still yes, though.” 

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth raise in that half smile that Jim has seen on other occasions. He saw it during their little game, during the process, he has seen it whenever they hunted, chased and clashed each other. Jim already knew that Sherlock missed him in a way that ordinary people could never understand, but hearing his words makes the statement more real and true, not only a thought but a fact, something that it’s there, clear and vivid.

"How could it be otherwise? You are me and I am you." Jim singsongs, voice mellow and musical.

They are still dancing when Jim moves his hand and puts both his arms around Sherlock’s neck, who pulls him closer, placing his hands on Jim’s hips. They are so close that Jim can feel Sherlock’s breath on his skin.

A single whispers coming from the detective’s mouth is enough for Jim to feel truly alive without really being it. A shiver runs down his spine, the beginning of a laugh arises in his throat, he feels the blood running through his veins, and the beating of his own heart isn’t now only the symbol of his regained human nature, instead it becomes the irrefutable evidence of something much bigger.

Their proximity isn’t only physical, it occurs a single look to realize that Sherlock feels the same. The detective moves closer and with a small movements of his head he further shortens the distance, Jim does the same and their lips meet in the middle. 

It’s a kiss without a real beginning; it’s incredibly difficult to determine who has first touched the other. Their relationship has always that way, after all: was Sherlock to start the whole thing chasing Moriarty or was him who tried to gain the detective’s attention first?

Jim has parted lips when he meets Sherlock’s, way more inexperienced: it doesn’t take a brilliant mind to notice that Sherlock isn’t familiar with that kind of touches. Jim smiles in the kiss and holds back a small laugh, biting the detective’s lower lip. The criminal then narrows his eyes – he opens one only for a second when he feels Sherlock’s hands on his face – and tuck his fingers through the detective’s dark curls, kissing him deeper.

He pulls away only when his lungs require air. 

“Darling, I’m afraid I have to go.” Jim says, breathing heavily. His time is almost over. “Consider this our midnight.” He adds in a smile. 

He would like to reach out and touch him one last time. He doesn’t want to go, especially now that Sherlock seems to reciprocate his feelings. But there are rules that even Jim Moriarty can’t break and the criminal turns his back to Sherlock and starts walking away. 

“Wait.”

Sherlock’s voice stops him. Jim turns slightly, without facing the detective entirely. 

“What?”

“Will you come back again?” His voice is needy. Or at least it seems so to Jim, who however can’t understand if that desperation he heard is truly present or if it’s only a figment of his imagination, something that it’s there only because Jim want it to be. The answer is probably a mix of both.

There is something else in Sherlock’s words: a selfish inclination, the desire to snatch a suicide man out of the jaws of the so longed death only for his own pleasure. If part of Jim would like to satisfy his desire, the other part wants to tell him to go and fuck himself, because if the criminal pulled a bullet in his mouth he did it for a motive. However, Jim does neither of those things. 

“I didn’t planned to.” He simply reply, shrugging. At these words, something in the detective's face changes. Even if they aren’t close, Sherlock’s delusion is visible and clear to Moriarty’s eyes. Maybe it’s that changing, the visible evidence of a loneliness that haunts them both, who makes Jim speak again. “But you already know how changeable I am, so don’t be sad, honey.”


End file.
